Incongruous
by PunkPinkPower
Summary: The only constant in Stiles life is that there is never enough time for him to feel anything, and if he spent all his time feeling terrible about everything that's happened, he'd probably be dead.


_Notes: During 3x06. Because I was really not okay with Stiles non-reaction to Derek dying._

Its hours before anyone even tells him what happened.

Stiles is sitting, alone in his room, wondering why no one is answering his texts, why there's a ridiculous thunder storm going on, and the hackles on the back of his neck are up but he can't figure out why.

He's about the go out and find out what is going on when his phone buzzes on the table. Stiles stares at it, and something sinks in the pit of his stomach.

Because on nights like this, when he feels this way, _it's never not bad news_.

'Plan went wrong,' the text from Isaac reads, 'Everyone hurt. Derek dead.'

Stiles reads the text message three times, and then he looks up at his bedroom window, out at the thunderstorm raging outside. Everyone's hurt, he thinks with a tiny lump in his throat, and Derek's dead.

About time, really. Nobody lives forever, especially not in Beacon Hills.

* * *

He doesn't have time to process. He's at Scott's with Allison and Isaac who are literally fighting over who is taking care of Scott better, and Stiles is packing Scott's bag for the meet tomorrow quietly, not thinking about what little he knows about what happened, not picturing all the terrible, awful ways Derek could have died.

Because no one tells him. No one is talking about it. All Stiles knows is that Derek is dead, Allison looks like a fierce warrior woman, and Isaac and Scott are both beat bloody, and he has no idea where Cora or Boyd are. It's not a lot to go on, but then, it never is.

He has to plan, though. He has to take care of things, has to get Scott up, has to stop Allison and Isaac from being ridiculous, has to try and get some sleep before the next day.

He crashes out against Scott's wall sometime in the early morning, next to his dresser, wringing his hands, thinking about all the nothing that he doesn't know.

* * *

"I can't believe Derek's dead," Scott says, leaning against the bus window before he closes his eyes again.

Stiles doesn't answer, just scrolls through the next words in the SAT vocabulary prep app, because Derek's not dead, not to Stiles. The words Derek's dead keep ringing in his ears, but his brain refuses to agree, refuses to process, refuses to imagine Derek lying on the ground not moving even though _he's seen it before_. And maybe that's why, because he's seen Derek die before, seen him not be dead while outwardly appearing completely dead.

He wishes he had proof.

"We have to talk about this," Stiles tells Scott again, but Scott doesn't answer, and Stiles is soon distracted by more ridiculous werewolf shenanigans.

He doesn't really want to talk about it. He wishes he had the time to talk about it, wishes there was ever enough time to process everything that goes on here, but then he's glad too. Because he doesn't have to feel it if he doesn't have to think about it all.

The only constant in Stiles life is that there is never enough time for him to feel anything, and if he spent all his time feeling terrible about everything that's happened, he'd probably be dead.

* * *

"He's not letting himself heal because Derek died," Stiles says, and he's aware of the way the words shake when they come out of his mouth but he isn't entirely sure why. Because Derek's dead? Because Scott's dying because Derek's dead? Because Stiles is this close to losing it because Scott's dying because Derek's dead and-

"Alright I'm gonna go get it I hate needles anyway," Stiles says, and he hesitates, makes sure Scott is in good hands before he rushes out of the bathroom, Lydia pulling on his arm, and when they're back out in the fresh air Stiles pulls his arm out of her grip, stops, bends over with his hands on his knees and tries to breathe.

"Stiles," Lydia says, her voice urgent and annoyed, "Stiles come on!"

"Just give me a second, okay, Christ!" Stiles yells back, doubled over.

He can feel it, in the pit of his stomach, rising up in his chest and threatening to take over. The panic attack, the intense, physical pain of his brain feeling defeated, of the weight on his shoulders becoming too heavy and his body giving out, and for a second he thinks it's going to overcome him, to take him down and make him absolutely useless.

But then he swallows, he breathes, he quenches his eyes shut and wills it down, back into the depths of himself where his panic and his fear and his uncertainty can stay locked up tight under a fragile shell of sarcasm and research and focus.

_Focus_, Stiles thinks, and then he straightens, digs in his pocket for his Adderall, manages to get the bottle open with shacking fingers, pops one in his mouth and swallows it despite his dry mouth.

"Alright, okay," Stiles says, shoving the bottle back in his pocket and surges forward, grabbing Lydia's arm and yanking her along with him, "Let's go."

* * *

When they're back on the bus, Lydia finally tells Stiles everything she knows. Scott and Allison are busy being ridiculous behind them so Scott's not listening, and Isaac is getting a lecture from Coach Finstock, and Boyd has his gaze securely fixed Ethan.

"And then I guess Derek attacked the big one, and Scott," Lydia looks behind her quickly, as if to make sure Scott is enraptured in Allison before she says, "I guess he tried to help, and then Derek and the big guy fell."

"They fell," Stiles repeats, and he averts his gaze, turns toward the window to stare at the passing desert landscape beside them.

"A couple of flights," Lydia answers cooly, "Down to an escalator. And then everyone just sort of scattered and Allison was busy trying to get Scott out of there…" Lydia's voice keeps going, but it goes fuzzy in Stiles ears.

Because he can see it now. He can see Derek losing his footing, see him go over the edge of the trashed building, see the look of fear and betrayal that must have crossed Derek's face as he fell down, and he can see, though he doesn't want to, he can see Derek landing on the ground in a smatter of broken bones and blood and his eyes slightly open.

He feels the lump in his throat return, and _now_, Stiles thinks, _now Derek is dead_. Up until this moment it had felt like if Stiles didn't know the truth, then maybe Derek wasn't really gone. But now he knows, and Derek's dead.

Stiles tries not to feel, tries not to think about all the people he's known who have died. He tries not to think about his mom, or Heather, or his father's deputies. He tries not to think about the kids at school, or Isaac's dad, or Matt. He tries not to think about Erica. He tries not to think about Derek.

And then Finstock is ordering them off the bus, and Lydia is handing him a tissue for a tear he didn't realize he'd shed, and life goes on without any hesitation, because there's always more to do.

There's never enough time. Never enough time to think about people dying. Never enough time to stop them from dying. There's never enough time to tell those people what they meant. That they meant anything at all.

_It's incongruous,_ Stiles think bitterly, as they carry Scott off the bus, _it's inappropriate, unsuitable, improper, but there it is. _

Sometimes people just die, and life goes on, and Stiles doesn't have the time to feel anything at all.


End file.
